


Breathless

by come_qwattly



Series: Smoke Signals [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, no real mention of them, references to zigi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:39:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/come_qwattly/pseuds/come_qwattly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A curly haired boy has asthma. And Zayn fell in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to harryismymuse. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It’s late.

 

It’s three, maybe four, am and he’s restless. The familiar sting and settle of nicotine fills his lungs, calms his veins that haven’t seemed to settle for months now. Nine months, one might say. It’s late. And Zayn is restless. He pulls one last drag from the cigarette before tossing it over the edge of the balcony and lighting up another. The flame catches the wind and the heat catches his cheeks, but stays long enough to burn the end of the new cigarette. He leans his forearms against the railings and stares out at nothing, everything, anything. He doesn’t really know anymore. It’s cold, maybe close to freezing, but he’s only wearing a ratty pair of sweats from a million years ago that he couldn’t stomach to part with. Maybe it had to do with the fact that they had five years of memories sewn into them; five years of smells, sounds, tastes, people.

 

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

 

He takes another long drag and blows it into the direction of the wind, almost in spite, almost hoping that the breath of smoke will somehow reach a particular boy with curly brown hair and eyes the size of the moon, the color of morning grass. Another drag. It’s late. He knows it. But he can’t sleep. He can’t seem to close his eyes long enough to push away thoughts of unruly brown hair and hands too big for their own good and thighs too thick to not be wrapped around his waist. It’s all there, all the time. And Zayn’s tired, and it’s late. But he can’t sleep.

 

The cigarette is halfway gone. He puts a few fingers through his hair and thinks about Saturday mornings in a bed too big and too soft to be left, with a boy too long and too beautiful to be empty handed. He thinks about tangled legs and warm chests and knotty hair that five showers wouldn’t fix so they went in for one more. He thinks of kale salads and curry rice that clung to the walls hours after they’d finished eating them. He thinks of slow voices in the early morning hours when they couldn’t sleep but couldn’t stay awake, but somehow did. Another long drag passes through his lips. This time he’s thinking of the whispered _I love you_ ’s, the filthy words passed between labored breaths after too much time apart. He’s thinking of shouting and tears and slamming doors and too many things unsaid. He’s thinking of frantic phone calls and worried hands wringing together. He’s thinking of one more look at the boy that stole his heart without his permission, but somehow knew he’d never need it. He’s thinking of too much, everything, all at once.

 

He’s thinking, thinking, thinking.

 

He stubs the butt. Lights again. Another. It’s stupid, really, why he still smokes on balconies, in backrooms, out windows, away. He’s so used to having to be a few feet away because, let’s face it, he needs the nicotine. But he also needs soft pale skin sitting up in white sheets waiting for him to come back; he never figured out which he needed more, which he needs more. He’s so used to having to blow the smoke the other way because _he’s_ “got asthma, Zayn,” and of course he does. But Zayn loved him too much to do anything but giggle, and he doesn’t giggle, and kiss the space at his neck that met his throat. A short drag. He doesn’t have to do that now. He doesn’t. _She’s_ told him that he could blow the smoke in her face if he wanted, could smoke in the bed, in the living room, wherever he wanted to - she didn’t mind. And he did that, once, and it felt so wrong. He kept looking over his shoulder, holding in the fumes for too long, so long that he’d gotten sick and wondered if his hands would ever stop shaking (they did, sort of). It all feels wrong. Because instead of brown curls knotting against his pillow (because at least he knows how to share) there’s long blonde locks flowing against the sheets and golden skin standing out harshly against the fabric in the dark. It’s all wrong. He stuffs his brows together and wonders if the missing, the wanting, the longing, ever goes away - or at least dulls.

 

He wonders, wonders, wonders.

 

He doesn’t take another drag. He feels someone behind him but doesn’t look. Doesn't need to. It's not who he wants it to be. Not who it should be.

 

"Zayn, babe,” (for a moment he longs for a set of cherry wine lips to push the word _jaan_ out with a long, throaty drawl that would make his lips quirk up involuntarily even if he was in trouble) “I told you you could smoke inside! It’s cold, come on...”

 

He hears her laugh, sees her smile, even if he’s not turned around. He closes his eyes and leans his head back asking, wanting, waiting for something. Anything. Everything. And he knows then that the pain doesn’t go away like he wants it to. The missing, the wishing, the hoping, it only gets more, more, more. And Zayn knows that he’ll spend the rest of his life dreaming of brown hair in buns and small yellow shorts on beaches far, far away. He knows he’ll spend the rest of his life waiting for something he let go.

 

He knows, he knows. He knows.

 

But he stubs out the half-smoked cigarette anyways. He touches the heart on his hip and sighs. He feels, he remembers. He holds on. He lights up again and blows smoke into the wind. All because a curly haired boy with bright eyes has asthma. And Zayn fell in love.


End file.
